


Nothing But Time

by vanceypants



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Soulmates sort of, Time Travel, i guess i could have said rich/oc since his squip is a human in this, this is a strange one and i'm not altogether sure how to describe it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: The compatibility algorithm is never wrong.  But how to convince Rich when he's not even from the same time period it was developed?
Relationships: Jeremy Heere/Jeremy Heere's Squip (mentioned), Rich Goranski/Rich Goranski's Squip
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Nothing But Time

“-and pretty much the very people who, like, co-opted it for their fuckin’ masculinity fuckin’ cult totally missed the gay subtext and satire of it. Like, Tyler Durden is totally queer, the whole book is queer, and the movie is totally queer too. But like, it’s way easier to steal some quotable fuckin’ lines and shit-fuckingly misinterpret every last word to make it about, I don’t know, the pussification of culture or what the fuck ever.” Rich finally stopped to catch his breath.

Moses rested his chin in his palm, his elbow against the counter of the bar. He could physically feel the affection in his own expression, his brown eyes soft and warm, and Rich looked away from them, grabbing the straw dangling in his half-finished drink, and manically stirring it about. The glass twinkled as the ice cubes clanged against the sides.

“And, like, I mean, I also like the fight scenes too.” Rich glared at the condensation on his glass.

Moses laughed. “You don’t need to pretend your viewing was superficial for my pleasure.”

“It’s like, I’m not even really that passionate about it though. I don’t know why that’s what I’m bringing up right now.”

“Because you’re a passionate person.”

It was too familiar, his hand too close to Rich’s. Rich pulled his hand away, looking up at him with a sense of uncertain confusion.

“I mean, that’s a lot to assume from one drunken rant, bro.” He laughed, and Moses shrank back in his seat.

“No, I, uh, I know. I know.” He fiddled with his glasses. “But you just seem very-”

“Loud?”

“Invested.”

Moses knew from his last sessions that it was the right thing to say, but he still felt dirty for understanding the script while, for Rich, it was the first time it was playing out. 

“I just, like, really like book to movie adaptations, which I know is totally fucking gay. The book is always better than the movie, I know that, but like, you know. It’s kinda cool, an outside person or team or whatever collabing to interpret the page. I’m very much Death of the Author anyway, so like, you know, the more interpretation and output, the better? I don’t think I’m really describing what I want to say super dooper well right now, dude, but you know.”

This was often how this particular conversation would go. Sometimes it was about Fight Club. Sometimes it was about The Great Gatsby. Sometimes it was some other book to film project, sometimes something obscure that Moses hadn’t seen in his own timeline. Regardless, it all came back around to passion. A fascination with the art of creation.

And an insecurity, an uptalked questioned uneasiness, that Rich was somehow not coming across correctly. 

Sometimes the topic would inevitably go to upbringing, childhood, teenhood, the shaping of a psyche. And Rich would leave tidbits of information about a life full of struggling to be heard. Sometimes Moses thought he spoke so quickly because he was afraid of being cut off, as though he was petrified the words would trap and he’d suffocate internally upon each and every syllable.

“I think you’re making perfect sense.”

It made about as much sense as any of this, this cosmic soul searching, this desperate algorithmic promise for extreme companionship.

Sometimes Moses thought the formula must be wrong. Surely if they were meant to be, it wouldn’t have taken this many resets to get it right. Somewhere, somehow, he always seemed to flunk the test issued from a supernatural teacher Moses couldn’t know the identity of. 

But the formula was perfect. His perfect match was, as issued in all caps by the all knowing simulator, RICH GORANSKI, age TWENTY TWO, of EARTH (which, thank goodness, because Moses’ own human features might not fair so well with any of the other lifeforms that some of his peers had matched with), CIRCA 21ST CENTURY 

Subset Chicago

Subset Illinois

Subset United States, North America, Western Hemisphere

It was all a little redundant, though naturally statehood and those particular cities were no longer classifications within Moses’ society. He’d studied enough end stage-ancient Earth courses to understand the basic gist.

And he’d read enough of Rich’s ever-expanding file to fill in the rest.

And he’d cycled through this particular bar, on this particular date, through these particular perfect circumstances often enough that he was pretty certain he was close to being an expert on everything to do with this city, this era, this bar, these customs…

Not quite an expert on Rich himself yet. 

But maybe he was getting there. Besides, aside from the inevitable ending of these evenings, getting to know him was half of the fun of these treks, wasn’t it?

The more he traveled, though, the dirtier it made him feel. Manipulative. He tried not to coax the conversation into well-trodden paths though. The spontaneity was important. Besides, well-trodden paths obviously hadn’t worked out so far. Why travel them again?

“Thanks. Hey, where are you from, anyway? Your accent is fucked.” Rich stopped abruptly, eyes widening. “Not fucked! Just, like, different? I thought you might be British or something, but that’s not right, is it?”

British. What the hell was that?

Ah, right. The division of land into nations was such a bizarre concept, though he supposed it was all Rich knew.

Moses never even considered the fact he had an accent, except for these times when Rich pointed it out. It was just the dialect in his region. A standard Earthling lilt.

“No, no, I’m from around here.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m an actor. I think all my voice work has permanently warped my inflection.”

“Weird.”

“I know, right?”

Rich took a sip of his drink--it was his fourth, and Moses could already see him thinking about what his fifth would be--and then added, “I’m from New Jersey.”

Moses almost said he knew. Thankfully, he held his tongue. “Really?”

“Yeah. Liberty and Prosperity. And Wawa. You ever been to a Wawa? I guess you wouldn’t have, if you’re from here. Though, duh Rich you fucking idiot-” the self deprecating asides were a common denominator in every playthrough of these conversations, “-travel exists, you big fucking dope.”

“I’ve never been to...what did you call it?”

“It’s a convenience store,” Rich grinned. “I used to go there before football practice, load up on chips and energy drinks. Man, there’s some really fucked energy drinks out there, man, you wouldn’t believe...well, anyway, good as it was, wasn’t enough to keep me around, you know?”

“So you moved to Chicago?”

“What can I say? I’m a big fan of the bean.”

What?

What did that mean?

“That’s, uh, that’s what it’s called, right?” Rich pulled the straw from his glass, giving it a thoughtful chew. “The thing made by that guy, the blackest black guy.”

“Vantablack. Anish Kapoor?”

“YEAH, that’s the one. Cloud Gate! That’s what it’s called, I think.”

It clicked then what Rich was referencing. Strange that he’d remember the shade of black before he’d remember the art piece from a city he was pretending to be from. He should have chosen a better cover story.

Especially when Rich continued.

“Anyway, what’s acting like?”

“Oh, ah, boring.”

“I doubt that. You probably pick up, like, all the babes. And the dudes. Assuming you’re totally bi, anyway.”

“Not bi,” Moses conceded.

“Damn. Another hetero menace.”

“Not hetero. A little bit of a menace.”

“A homo menace?”

“Indeed.”

“Nice!”

There would be a pause here, a moment where Rich would teeter between flirtation and friendliness. Moses watched him, watched the gears turn.

And then Rich bumped his foot against Mo’s, scooting a little closer to him on his bar stool. “Well, I’m totally bi, but maybe we can be menacing together.”

99.8% compatibility. Moses’ own parents hadn’t had that high of a compatibility ranking. The computer had searched through the entire span of recorded human and known extraterrestrial existence, and pinpointed this boy, this moment, this time.

Moses had never placed much stakes into fate, especially when it came to trying to mathematically quantify it. It hardly seemed something that could be calculated and captured.

But he’d fallen in love with Rich on his very first portal jump. He’d gone through the portal on a lark, on a dare, urged by Jeremy (and Jeremy’s very much non-human mate, calculated in the same time period, but different space).

_“What do you h-have to lose?” Jeremy had asked._

_“What does he have to gain?” Squip had countered, a scowl on his blue-tinged features, the translator chip vibrating at his neck to convert his every verbalization._

_“Y...you went through,” Jeremy had pointed out. “And, uh, and if you hadn’t, um, w-we wouldn’t be-”_

_“So? We had common ground. Moses is chasing after someone from nearly 1,000 years before lightspeed travel was invented, let alone-”_

_“-t-the formula says-”_

_“What if something goes wrong and he’s unable to phase back home?”_

_“A-at least he’d be with his perfect m-match.”_

_“Perfect match,” Moses had chuckled. He’d wanted to point out that it was all a party trick, a magician’s sham. Of course it felt like a perfect match, because you were being told it was a perfect match. You’d do anything to prove the validity of the formula to justify jumping so swiftly into a relationship._

But he’d tried it all the same.

And Rich had come into the bar, and lisped out a drink order, and started bitching about discontinued snack foods that Moses had never heard of, and Moses’ heart had threatened to supernova. 

“I’d...well, I’d really like that.” Moses’ hands felt too large as he clutched at his beer bottle. He didn’t particularly care for the taste, but it would seem strange if he didn’t at least somewhat consume alcohol in this establishment. The bitterness trickled through his lips, down his throat, and he must have grimaced, because Rich started to giggle.

“Here, try mine, it’s sweeter.” Rich took Moses’ bottle, sliding his own glass over. Moses stared at it, syrupy pink and carbonated, and he knew, he knew from experience he wouldn’t like it.

But Rich’s lips had been on this glass.

And usually drinking was the right response. 

So he took a big swallow.

And must have grimaced even harder. Rich sputtered around the bottle Moses had been nursing, a few drops of amber fluid bursting from him, as he started to laugh brightly.

“Holy shit, you’re so not a bar dude, are you?”

“Not really.”

“So what is your scene usually?”

“I don’t know. I…” He wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to tell him about outer space, because he knew Rich liked science fiction. He wanted to share scientific reality with him. To bump their compatibility to a point where Rich would be open to being whisked away to a new society, a new time period, a new culture. 

A completely new life.

But that was selfish, wasn’t it?

Sometimes Moses wondered what might happen if he chose the opposite route. Smashed his portal watch and stayed here. Could he be happy in Chicago? Rich hardly seemed happy here. Often he’d talk about moving further away. _“The west coast,”_ He’d usually say. _“I wanna live on a real beach by the ocean.”_

Moses could give him beaches. He could give him the ocean. But if the timing was wrong, would any of that really matter?

“...I like my job, I suppose.”

“All the world’s a stage and all that shit? That jazz I should say. And all that jazz. That’s the song, right?”

Moses took a moment to figure out what he was indicating, then laughed. “Right, exactly.” Because as far as Rich knew, he was an actor.

It wasn’t altogether wrong, because he certainly put on a persona for his podcast (such an antiquated term, one he’d picked up from Rich in fact, to describe the complexity that it involved in his time. Astral projection and holograms and the zen of psychic linking with one’s audience; in practice, though, it really did parallel Rich’s time period’s idea of a podcast). He hoped he wouldn’t have to report another failure to his audience tonight.

The saga of his dwindling seduction success was becoming some of his most engaged with content. And the soul-currency was definitely appreciated, but he was ready to bring on a special guest.

The most special guest.

Rich would make such an intriguing addition to the show, to his life, to the universe as a whole. Someone with this laugh, that smile, those jokes, with so many observations, with so much wit, with such a nervous sort of affection hardly deserved to languish in this world of factions and bottled up tension and disorganized pre-apocalyptic doom.

He supposed Rich had a good 50 years before the Final War would completely decimate everything he knew, the few things he loved and the vast majority of things he tolerated or outright despised. Moses could live with that, if Rich truly wouldn’t relocate. He could learn to settle into this culture, and ignore the looming threat of massive deaths and famine and ruin.

It would be okay. Because he’d be living it in compatibility with Rich.

But all of that was skipping the part where he needed to seduce Rich in the first place. They needed to maximize their connection and escalate beyond this singular bar.

Why did they never seem to move beyond this bar?

Clearly Moses was doing something extremely wrong.

“I like tending my garden,” Moses realized Rich was still waiting to hear what his ‘scene’ was, if not bars. “I like going to fashion shows.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. It’s important to stay up to date on trends.” He paused, then finally, sheepishly, admitted, “And I get a laugh at some of the outlandish styles. Oh, that makes me a terrible person, doesn’t it?”

“No way, dude! That’s fucking gold! I need to start doing that. ‘Boo you whore, don’t mix patterns!’”

“Those platform shoes are absolutely hideous,” Moses added in a mock-snooty voice.

Rich laughed. “A sash? In this season? Pah-lease, get out of here with that poppycock.”

“Poppycock!” Moses repeated, before he started tittering into a stream of laughter himself.

It must have ignited Rich’s own funny bone because he started laughing too. His hand pounded against the bar, and the bartender looked at them in annoyance. Rich finally stopped, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh man, you have an infectious motherfucking laugh, dude.”

“So do you.”

“Oh please. Nothing about anything that comes out of my mouth is infectious. Except maybe when I barf and have a stomach bug or something. That would be literally infectious.”

It made Moses laugh again, even while focused in on the sound of his own inflection. The fact Rich found it infectious made his chest ache, and he tried not to think about time as a linear path, about the fact that, if one were to look at time as a line marching forward, Rich had in actuality been dead, compared to Moses, for thousands of years.

The world had been so much bleaker before he’d started to see him. He hadn’t had much of a laugh at all, and certainly not one that could be measured as infectious by any standard of the word. Certainly he’d had his polite sociable laugh, and the staged persona laugh for his show. 

But not this, this free, belly aching, vibrant sort of joy.

“Well, perhaps you should cool it on the drinks to prevent any of that from happening.”

“Nah. Let’s do shots.” Rich grinned. “I think I’ll be drinking you under the table though, man.”

And he certainly did, as shot after shot was poured for their little pairing. Rich tossed them back as though they were filled with water, while Moses took several sips to finish one for every third one Rich pulverized.

His world swam about, large body swaying back and forth on the stool. Rich reached out, laughing, grasping Moses by the forearm.

“Whoa,” He said. “Talk about lifting, bro. Are these things arms or tree trunks, man?”

Moses’ face felt hot, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the comment or from the contact or the alcohol. “Trees,” He finally answered.

It worked at getting another delighted laugh from Rich. “You’re fun.”

“Thank you. So are you.”

“Nah. I’m just a dirty old drunk.” Rich slumped over, nuzzling against Moses’ shoulder. His body was small, surprisingly brittle, and Moses was struck with the urge to put his arm around him.

But sometimes too much physical contact too quickly would end their interactions. He kept his hands to himself, folded primly in his lap.

Rich tilted his head towards Moses’ shoulder, and he felt the flutter of his lips against the curve of his body, the cushion of his shirt dulling the heat from the contact.

“I gotta piss,” Rich mumbled against him.

He hopped to his feet, pulling away and leaving Moses cold and gawking. Rich waddled more than he walked, as he took himself to the men’s room.

Moses kicked his legs gleefully, much like a small child, a wide smile on his face. This was going good. This was going really good.

He was grateful he’d sprung for the state of the art portal watch, as he moved towards the unused corner of the bar, near the dart boards, facing the wall as he pressed the right sequence of buttons to ping Squip. It was long distance and would certainly cost a fortune, but he had to express his delight.

“What?”

It was how Squip always answered, the holographic projection of his body jolting from the lights of the communicator’s screen.

“He kissed me.” Moses giggled. “He really kissed me.”

“On the lips?”

“Well, no, the shoulder-”

“He kissed the back of your hand twelve cycles back, and you still came home alone. This hardly seems an improvement.” Squip’s bored expression and injection of logic would do nothing to detract from Moses’ bright eyed drunken bliss. “And are you drunk again?”

“We did shots. Oh, Squip, he’s wonderful. He’s wonderful and he’s going to come home with me and live with me and love me and I’m going to love him and-” He hiccupped in the midst of his talk, and Squip’s expression grew amused.

“Yes, well, maybe you should be discussing that with him-”

“Discussing what with me?”

Moses placed his hand over the top of the watch instinctively, covering up the hologram in the process, as he turned to face Rich.

Rich’s eyes were wide. “Were you, like, talking to a wall about me?”

“No, no, I, uh, I was talking to my watch.” What a foolish excuse.

Rich’s nose wrinkled a little. “What, like a smartwatch or something?”

Oh thank god, those had been invented in this time period. He couldn’t remember for sure.

Except the sense of relief was extremely short lived. Rich didn’t seem relieved. Moses kept his hand clamped around his portal watch, for fear that Squip hadn’t disconnected, and relinquishing his grip would release his holographic avatar into view.

“Really weird that you were talking about me.”

“Well, I-”

“And, like, who said anything about living together? Jesus Christ, man, that’s a little...that’s-”

“You don’t understand,” Moses stumbled over his words. “I know everything about you. We’re meant to be together.” He released his hold on the watch, Squip having thankfully disconnected. He reached out, grasping Rich by the shoulders before he thought better of it. “We compliment each other well. Just let me explain.”

Rich’s eyes were wide. He pulled back, or tried to, but Moses’ grip kept him clasped. “...no,” He said, tiny.

Tiny and scared.

Moses released his hold on him as though scalded. As Rich wrapped his arms around himself, body trembling. “You’ve been watching me?”

“No, I...no, I’m…”

How was he supposed to explain this? 

“I know you, Richard. I know you. You like cherry coke and have an entire hamper for clean clothes because you’re too preoccupied to fold anything. You go to thrift stores to collect the tiny beanie babies that used to come with Happy Meals. You like movies but don’t watch them with friends because you can’t hold still--but I wouldn’t mind, I don’t mind how much you need to move around, Rich, I don’t mind. You’ve tried multiple times to make vodka with swedish fish and were disappointed every time, but keep forgetting you’ve already done it. Your favorite color is yellow and you love sunflowers and-”

“You really are stalking me.”

“I’m not--you told me. You’ve told me all of that.” He wasn’t making it better. He was making it worse. But he didn’t want this one to fail. Oh god, why had he called Squip? What was he thinking?

“No I didn’t.”

“Not this time. But you’ve...we’ve done this before. I’ve been here before.”

“This bar? With me? I would have remembered-”

“This bar, on this date, at this time. With you. And...I’m from the future, okay? I’m from the future, and we’re...our compatibility scores are-”

“I need to go.” Rich backed away. The fear in his eyes pierced through Moses, and he wasn’t sure if it was that or the alcohol that was making him so nauseated. “You’re...holy shit, you’re insane. You’re insane, and you’re stalking me, and I need to go.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

And Moses could feel it. He could feel Rich’s own disappointment.

They’d been so close. They’d been so close.

“...of course,” Moses said softly. “Of course. I...yes, you should go. Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“No, I can walk.”

“You really shouldn’t-” His hand outstretched, and Rich shrank away. “...right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare...I’m just sorry.”

Forty two times. Forty two times he’d gone through this. And Moses wasn’t sure he could go for another. Maybe this was it. A sign. They weren’t meant to be. The algorithm couldn’t be right every time, could it? No matter how pretty Rich’s smile or how intoxicating his kiss.

Rich walked out of the bar, and Moses had to sit for a moment. 

“You look like you could use a drink.” The bartender smiled as Moses moved back to his bar stool.

And he really shouldn’t have. But he took his time to drink it. One last time in this place, in this hour. He’d destroy the watch when he got back and make sure not to purchase another. He’d lose Rich’s coordinates, as though he didn’t already have them memorized. He’d burn his file. Whatever it took.

Moses lifted himself from the bar, treading back to the men’s room. It was thankfully empty, though woefully neglected in terms of cleanliness. He glanced down at his watch, and called Squip once more.

“I’m sorry.” He said, in place of the gloating that Moses had anticipated.

Moses smiled sadly. “Well, I was being manipulative, coming back here so many times in the first place.”

Squip scoffed. “I visited Jeremy seventeen times, observing him, before I spoke with him the first time.”

“But it only took that one time to make the connection happen.”

“That’s different. We’re of the same time. And why are you calling instead of telling me in person?”

“I guess I wanted to take a few more moments in this place.”

“...the men’s room?”

Moses scoffed. It was all he could manage. The laugh that Rich had found so alluring was gone. “Yes, Squip. The men’s room.” He heard the door begin to creak open. “I’ll see you at Jeremy’s birthday party.” He clicked the display off, ending the call.

As Rich shuffled into the bathroom.

They stared at each other for a moment, quiet, the buzz of the fluorescent lights clashing with the faint drip-drip-drip of one of the sinks which hadn’t been properly shut off.

“Did you need to go again?” Moses said dumbly. “I can just give you some priva-”

“About this future thing,” Rich crossed his arms, looking at him warily. “Maybe we should, uh...I think you should start telling me everything, from the beginning.”

Moses smiled, shy and amused and confused and hopeful. 

“I don’t know how to start at the beginning,” He finally said, “When my story starts long after your existence.”

But he could try. He’d talk for a thousand years if it meant one more chance.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gb38t9ZnBhM& this is the video that inspired this fic. i hope this fic made any sort of sense and thank you for reading.


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